


84 Charing Cross Road

by ViolaWay



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Books, Fluff, M/M, bookshop au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1280524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolaWay/pseuds/ViolaWay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every day, Harry comes into the shop looking for a different, obscure book. Louis never has a copy. </p><p>(“Your problem,” Louis interrupts, “is that you assume that an author should attempt to replicate Shakespeare’s style in order to create something which is the epitome of its genre. You are, as usual, wrong. That’s like saying that every musician should try to copy…oh, I don’t know…Elvis Presley? Without taking into account the variety of genres, styles, instruments, melodies… I think that, for a book to get published, it must be good in its own right. It might not appeal to an individual, but it certainly doesn’t have to be Shakespeare to capture someone’s imagination, to inspire someone. It’s a little bit snobbish, Harry, for you to say that a book cannot be classed as more than ‘good’, just because it isn’t written by a clone of Shakespeare.” It would be an insult, if not for the way Louis’ smiling impishly, fingers dancing distractingly over Harry’s thigh.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	84 Charing Cross Road

The first time Harry Styles visits Marks & Co, it’s because he read about the shop in a book one time, and he’s wanted to visit ever since—to see for himself whether it lives up to the hype.

It doesn’t.

For many years, he knows, it stopped being a bookshop. It was converted into a chain restaurant; the bookshelves were ripped out of the walls and were replaced with cheap, mass-produced wallpaper and grease-stains. The magic was—however briefly—lost. Then, the shop was bought back by someone with the name Tomlinson, and the books returned to 84 Charing Cross Road. He’s here to make his own judgement on the magic, though.

Harry’s not sure what he expects when he stands across the street, staring at it. It’s small, books lining the windows that protrude from the main structure of the building. The door is painted dark green, and there’s a brass ‘84’ nailed proudly in the centre, polished and shining, catching the light of the July day. It’s a busy street, though, and a large red bus soon obstructs his view; this is London, after all, and it must continue to live up to the stereotypes. It makes the bookshop seem even more out of place—as though it was copied and pasted into the street, straight from the pages of a 1950s novel: it looks _wrong_ , almost, but Harry can still sense the musty antiquity that he loves so much, the wonder that can only be associated with being in the presence of something immortal, something wonderful.

After a few minutes of stationary observation, he goes inside. A bell tinkles when he opens the door; the smell of dust is overpowering. There’s a pixie-like boy (man) perched on the counter, cross-legged. He has a book in front of his eyes, is scanning the page, and his thick-framed glasses are slipping down his nose, wisps of brown hair stuck to his forehead with how it’s the middle of summer and nowhere in London (or, indeed, the whole of England)—especially cramped second-hand bookshops—seem to have air-conditioning. He looks like he belongs here, in this tiny, crumbling bookshop somewhere in the middle of London, and—if the nametag that’s pinned, upside down, to his t-shirt is any indication—he works here, too. But Harry can also surmise that ‘Louis =)’ is deeply engrossed in his book, and he knows better than to disturb someone when they’re like that.

Instead, he consults the crumpled list that he’d shoved in his pocket this morning—the list of books he wishes to purchase here today. His handwriting is scrawled across the lined notepaper, cramped at the bottom where he’s tried to write too many books down.

The shelves, he notices, are not arranged in any discernable order, and so he starts at the one nearest the back of the shop, eyes scanning the shelf attentively before he moves to the next one. There are ten shelves in the entire shop, shoved so close together that Harry can barely move, thin as he is. He resigns himself (not too grudgingly, considering) to having to scour each one of them in turn in order to find the second-hand gems that he wants.

After twenty minutes, his search has yielded no results, and he can feel Louis’ eyes on his back, watching him. Harry has to admit that he likes the feel of the other boy’s scrutiny, smiles to himself a little at the thought. Eventually, he spins around, catching the bookseller in the act.

Louis doesn’t seem embarrassed. He simply tilts his head, hops gracefully off of the counter and sticks his hand out for Harry to shake, blue eyes glittering. He’s possibly the most beautiful thing Harry’s ever seen.

Harry takes the proffered hand, smiling awkwardly.

“Hello. I’m Louis,” Louis says, as though Harry can’t read that on his pin, “how can I help you?” There’s a slightly mocking lilt to his tone, but Harry takes him up on the offer all the same, trying to recall the first item on his list.

“Um, would you happen to have a copy of ‘The Machine-Gunners’?” Harry asks, smiling hopefully.

“Nope,” Louis says lightly.

“Oh. Do you not have a system you can check or anything?” Harry presses, not quite trusting Louis’ reliability.

“I’ve read every book in here,” Louis says, not quite boasting, just stating, “and I’ve never read that one. So no, we don’t have it here. Sorry.” Their hands are still connected, Harry notices abruptly, hastily drawing his away. Louis laughs—not mockingly, just a happy, carefree sound: putting Harry at ease.

“Oh, okay.” A pause. “Do you have ‘The Garbage King’? By Elizabeth Laird?” Harry read it once, in his teens a few years ago, and he’s been looking for a nice, second-hand copy ever since.

“Nah.”

Harry decides that’s quite enough disappointment on that front for one day—he lives right around the corner, decides that he might be a frequent customer, if the view’s always as lovely as this—and folds his arms across his chest, pouting just a little bit.

“What would you recommend, then?” he asks petulantly.

“Ever heard of the ‘87th Precinct’ series?” Louis inquires. When Harry looks blank, he continues: “We’ve got a few of them here—there are over 50 in the series, though, so don’t expect us to stock them all. We’ve got the first one, though, I think…” He heads for a shelf near the front of the shop, dexterous fingers reaching for a slim book, which has the title ‘Cop Hater’.

“A crime book?” Harry says, wrinkling his nose.

“Don’t be rude,” Louis chastises, smirking. “Crime books are some of the best, really. You’ve just got to find the right one.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees doubtfully, taking the book and rifling through it. “How much?”

“It’s £1.00,” Louis informs him, skipping back to behind the counter and hitting the start button on a computer that looks ancient; Harry can hear its noisy protests as it struggles to start up.

Harry offers up the money, and then—after pausing thoughtfully for a moment—hops cheekily up onto the counter, opening his new book to page 1. Louis, after shoving the money into a tray that appears to be acting as a till, rolls his eyes and sits next to Harry, grabbing his own book from where he discarded it.

“What’re you reading?” Harry asks, oddly eager to keep the conversation going.

“’Automated Alice’,” Louis replies. “‘S good. Based on Alice in Wonderland, I guess, but like…written by Lewis Carroll on LSD.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Harry grins, and then he lets it go silent, immersing himself in the words on the pages in front of him.

Louis lapses into quietness, then, too. Harry’s aware that their thighs are brushing where they’re sat too close, legs swinging and breathing even, but he finds that it doesn’t bother him too much. Sitting here, it feels like something he should have been doing forever, like this boy should be a permanent fixture by his side. It’s not weird.

It’s an indeterminable amount of time before Louis sighs and shifts, stretching his legs out and elongating his petite frame. Harry’s distracting from reading by the small sliver of skin that is suddenly presented to him, finds himself gawping unattractively at Louis’ golden skin where the man’s t-shirt has been lifted in order to reveal it. He’s been aware of how attractive Louis is since the moment he entered the shop, but now he’s almost drooling, and that’s—well, that’s embarrassing.

Carelessly folding over a triangle of paper at the top corner of his page, Harry puts the book down and begins the monumental task of tearing his eyes away from that slight dusting of hair…

“Like what you see?” Louis’ voice is rough and full of suppressed laughter; Harry feels himself blush.

“Will you kick me out if I say I do?” Harry asks cheekily, a bit surprised by the words coming out of his own mouth. He supposes it’s a defence mechanism of some sort—it’s definitely useful.

“Nah, I’ll kick you out if you say you _don’t_ ,” Louis quips. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Harry.”

“Harry… I like it. It suits you,” Louis says, smile crinkling his eyes. “So, what d’you think of the book? Has it changed your entirely incorrect opinion on crime fiction forever?”

“I like it,” Harry says slowly. “I mean, it’s hardly _Shakespeare_ —”

“Your problem,” Louis interrupts, “is that you assume that an author should attempt to replicate Shakespeare’s style in order to create something which is the epitome of its genre. You are, as usual, wrong. That’s like saying that every musician should try to copy…oh, I don’t know…Elvis Presley? Without taking into account the variety of genres, styles, instruments, melodies… I think that, for a book to get published, it must be good in its own right. It might not appeal to an individual, but it certainly doesn’t have to be Shakespeare to capture someone’s imagination, to inspire someone. It’s a little bit snobbish, Harry, for you to say that a book cannot be classed as more than ‘good’, just because it isn’t written by a clone of Shakespeare.” It would be an insult, if not for the way Louis’ smiling impishly, fingers dancing distractingly over Harry’s thigh.

“O…kay,” Harry says, long and drawn out. “I guess you’re right. I can definitely relate to the cops in this book, what with the heat and all.” He’s sweating, not just with how Louis’ making him nervous, but with how they haven’t even installed a fan in this place, and the air remains musty and motionless, the sun heating the insides of the shop as though it’s an oven.

“Ah, and don’t you love how the author uses the heat wave as a subtle metaphor for the motives of the murder: love, passion, anger…”

“Shh!” Harry protests, pressing his hand over Louis’ mouth. “I haven’t read up to that bit yet!” Louis’ tongue darts out and paints a sloppy circle over Harry’s palm, but Harry refuses to budge. Louis promptly switches tactics.

“Oh, you don’t know who the murderer is?” he says, muffled but not silenced by Harry’s hand. “Well, I’ll tell you. It’s—”

Harry jumps off the desk and runs out of the shop, fingers in his ears and singing at the top of his voice to drown out Louis’ words. He stands indignantly outside until Louis—giggling—comes out, carrying Harry’s book in his hands.

“You left this,” he laughs.

“Thank you,” Harry says stiffly. “I’m not speaking to you until I’ve finished,” he adds—ridiculous what with how he’s talking now. But he turns on his heel and marches off before Louis can reply, makes it halfway down the street before he turns and flashes a goofy grin in the man’s direction.

***

The next morning, Harry forces himself to wait until 10am before he sets off for Marks & Co. He’s been up since 6, jittery and eager to see Louis again, even he knows that it’s stupid to be so obsessed with someone he only met yesterday. Upon leaving, he arms himself with his list of books and his tightest pair of skinny jeans, and when he passes Starbucks on his way to the bookshop, he’s inside and ordering two coffees before he even consciously makes the decision to buy one for Louis. He wonders if the man will think it’s weird—but Harry’s always believed that coffee is the key to starting any great friendship, and—first and foremost—he does want to be Louis’ friend. So he throws away his inhibitions and walks briskly to the shop, balancing the two cups in one hand and texting his mum with his phone in the other.

When he enters, his face immediately lights up in a smile as he sees Louis standing on tiptoe, arms straining to reach a book on the top shelf. Harry walks over—pocketing his phone and leaving the message unsent—plastering himself to Louis’ back and stretching over him in order to retrieve the book from its perch.

“Thanks,” Louis murmurs, and Harry tries not to imagine that Louis’ leaning back into his body. He steps back before he has the opportunity to come across as too creepy, and Louis turns around looking him up and down approvingly. “Nice outfit. Did you bring me coffee?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s plucking one of them out of Harry’s hand and taking a sip, instantly wrinkling his nose. “Have you got any sugar?”

“Uh, no, I don’t,” Harry replies. “Sorry. I take mine black, so…”

“It’s fine,” Louis smiles. “There’s some upstairs. C’mon, I’ll show you around my humble abode.”

“Are you meant to go upstairs while you’re working?”

“Not really, but I only really get customers in the afternoon, if at all. It’ll be fine; stop worrying. Don’t you want to get a glimpse of my mysterious life?”

“You’re not a character from a book, Louis. ‘S not mysterious at all.”

“Now I’m offended,” Louis says, smirking. “I’m more enigmatic than you could ever hope to be. Now, look at these stairs. Can’t you see the stories in these stairs?”

“Um…no?”

“That’s because you’re not looking hard enough. And you’re not Sherlock Holmes. But the point is: you’ll never know the stories of these stairs, just as you will never unravel the secrets of my life, of which there are many.”

Harry, slightly bemused, pauses when they reach the top of the stairs, leaning in the open doorway while Louis skips ahead. It seems true, from a first glance, that this flat doesn’t reveal any of Louis’ stories: there are no photos on the walls and there’s not very much clutter, either.

Louis leads him through to what must be the kitchen, and—despite himself—Harry looks around curiously, searching for any clues about Louis’ life.

The kitchen, too, is fairly average. It’s painted yellow, surfaces clean and cupboards closed. There’s a packet of Yorkshire tea on the sideboard, next to an old-fashioned looking kettle, and a pot marked sugar sits next to that.

Louis grabs that pot now, pouring a liberal amount into his latte until Harry’s sure that he won’t be able to taste any of the actual coffee.

“You won’t be able to taste the actual coffee,” he points out critically.

“The trick to hot drinks,” Louis informs him, “is that they must taste like cake. Cake, in liquid form.”

Harry doesn’t even know how to respond to that, so he just drinks some more of his own bitter-tasting drink and follows Louis when the boy leads them back out, down the stairs and into the main shop. Just as Louis had predicted, no customers have arrived in their absence, and the shop remains just as empty as before.

“Thanks for the coffee, though,” Louis says sincerely. “No one’s done that for me since I moved here.”

“When was that?”

“Well, I sort of lived here all my life; it was my mum who bought the place. But then I went off to Uni up north for a couple of years, stayed with my dad and sisters for a while. Since then I’ve only been here for about six months.”

“What was that about me never being able to pry your stories from you?” Harry smirks.

“Oh, we’ll have none of that deviousness around here. Didn’t I just thank you for your generosity and kindness of spirit? And then you _insult_ me! Will the depravity never end?” Louis says dramatically, adding flailing hand gestures for emphasis. Harry snorts into his coffee.

“The coffee was nothing, really,” he says. “Think of it as a reward for recommending such a wonderful book. And besides, I heard that this place opens at 8am. I reckon it’s a breach of your human rights if you have to get up that early without caffeine.”

“Ah, I drink industrial amounts of Yorkshire tea,” Louis responds, nodding wisely. “At least here cups every morning.”

“Alright,” Harry replies, shaking his head. “So, what was the book for?” He picks it up from where Louis placed it on the counter, trying not to break into a smile at the memory of Louis trying (and failing) to reach it. It’s more the pride of the matter that makes him want to giggle: Louis could have easily pulled up a chair, but he had refused, struggling to reach the book on his own.

“Oh. It was for you, actually. I had a feeling you’d be back—I’m irresistible—and obviously you need me to educate you on some of the best _contemporary_ books.”

“Heeeey…I read contemporary books!”

“And you also read Shakespeare.”

“What do you have against Shakespeare?”

“Anyway. Have you read ‘The Eyre Affair’?” Louis asks, tapping the book. Harry sort of wants to argue some more, but curiosity distracts him.

“No, I haven’t,” he admits. “What’s it about?”

“Impossible to explain,” Louis says dismissively. “You’ll just have to read it. But…not yet. I must screen all of my potential friends before I allow them to spend time in my glorious presence.”

“Aww, I’m a potential friend?” Harry simpers, voice teasing.

“Don’t be a dick about it,” Louis laughs, slapping Harry’s thigh lightly. “We’ve already established that you’re a book snob and _rude_ , but there’s still a chance for you to redeem yourself. Can I touch your hair?”

Harry chuckles—having complied to this request many times before—and dips his head forward so that Louis can hesitantly pet at it. Harry’s always liked having his hair touched, and the small amount of contact send delicious shivers down his spine, although he hopes that Louis doesn’t notice. It’s only when the man starts carding his fingers through Harry’s curls that Harry has to draw back, biting his lip to keep from letting out any embarrassing noises.

“That’s some nice hair, young Hazza,” Louis grins, eyes sparkling. He seems oblivious—thankfully—and Harry breathes a sigh of relief, not even bothering to question to new nickname. “You’ve passed test number 1.”

“Great,” Harry replies, and his voice is stronger than he’d expected it to be.

“What’s your favourite book, then? And before you say ‘Hamlet’, I would like to remind you that the future of our friendship depends on this answer.”

“I wasn’t going to say that!” Harry whines, even though he was. “My favourite book is…uh, ‘The Da Vinci Code’, I guess. I mean, it’s the book that I’ve re-read the most times, anyway.”

“I keep meaning to read that book,” Louis says thoughtfully. “Okay, you pass that one.”

“I’m thrilled,” Harry says dryly.

“We’ll have none of that,” Louis scolds. He’s casually circling Harry, now, and Harry feels simultaneously flushed and uncomfortable under the scrutiny. “Favourite food?” Louis continues.

“Bananas,” Harry responds immediately. Louis raises a single eyebrow. “They’re a good source of potassium!” Harry protests, even though Louis hasn’t said a word.

“I honestly cannot believe that you exist,” Louis says, shaking his head. “Alright…favourite band?” He’s stopped circling, now, is restlessly shifting from foot to foot, grabbing books at random from the shelves.

“The Aggressive Pencils,” Harry replies promptly.

“What the fuck.”

“They’re an actual band! I love their music; they actually base a lot of their songs on classical literature.”

“The Aggressive Pencils,” Louis repeats. “ _The Aggressive Pencils._ ”

“What’s _your_ favourite band, then?” Harry demands, folding his arms across his chest.

“The Fray,” Louis says. “Or Snow Patrol.”

“I like Snow Patrol,” Harry replies reluctantly. He moves over to the counter and sits on it, grabbing the book that Louis had picked out for him and idly flicking through it.

“Final question,” Louis says, “what are you doing for lunch today?”

“I’m not sure…” … _whether you’re asking me out or not and I don’t want to sound presumptuous but also don’t want to mention any previous plans, even though I promised Liam that I’d spend more time with him._

“Well, I’m meeting an old friend and I was wondering whether you would want to come with me. To be honest, I need a 2nd opinion on you before I pledge undying friendship to you, and I judge Zayn’s taste in friends: he chose me, after all. Plus, I think I’m becoming biased; I’m being seduced by your curls. An impartial judge is essential in order for me to ascertain your worthiness.”

Harry blinks a few times before managing to say, “Um. Yes.” He can’t say anything else, because the comment about his hair has led to a serious struggle not to pounce on Louis.

“Good,” Louis replies happily. “I think you’ll like Zayn. He’s all brooding and handsome and mysterious…and he’s a _model_.”

“Would I have seen him around?” Harry asks.

“Um, you know that clothes shop, ‘Next’?” Harry nods. “Have you ever bought any of their own-brand boxers?”

“I think I might’ve…”

“That’s his crotch.”

“Oh. …It’s a nice crotch,” Harry says, and Louis giggles.

“It is, isn’t it?” Louis agrees. “Not that he appreciates me saying as much—boundaries and stuff. He’s getting married next summer.”

“Really?”

“Haven’t seen him since he proposed,” Louis says, face falling as he comes to stand next to where Harry’s sat. Harry thinks he might see the man blink away tears, but he doesn’t mention it. “Think he might’ve been avoiding me.” And Louis turns to Harry, then, looking so—so dejected, or un-Louis-like, that Harry’s pulling him into a tight hug immediately, making a valid attempt not to smell Louis’ hair or something similarly creepy like that.

“I’m sure he’s not avoiding you,” Harry murmurs.

“You’re very nice, Harry,” Louis replies, slightly muffled what with how his face is buried in Harry’s chest.

“’s true,” Harry insists. “I mean, I’ve only known you for a couple of days, but like… I think you’re amazing. You’re funny and you’re genuine and you always make me smile. Why would anyone want to avoid you? Especially when you vet all of your friends so carefully.”

“I didn’t vet Zayn,” Louis says, pulling away. He doesn’t respond to the compliments, but his cheeks have gone a telling shade of pink. His face is a strange cocktail of vulnerability and frustration. “I thought he was cute, so I let him into my life, no questions asked. You’re cute.”

Harry flushes, but his gentleman’s instincts compel him to return the compliment. “You’re cute, too.”

“We’re the worst,” Louis answers. “Cute people. We’re the absolute worst.”

“And why’s that?” Harry asks, although he thinks he knows the answer. He thinks he can guess what Zayn did that’s made Louis like this, so distant and so fond of covering up a potential problem with humour. He doesn’t get an answer, so he just covers up the silence with a genuine: “I’m sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be. You haven’t done anything to hurt me, Hazza.” Then, nearly inaudible: “Not yet.”

“I’ll never hurt you,” Harry responds, hand fluttering uselessly at his side—resisting the temptation to reach out and physically comfort the beautiful boy who’s still stood directly in front of him, legs bracketed by Harry’s thighs with how the younger boy’s still sat on the counter, like he’s trying to carve out his own little space in this bookshop—to imprint some of himself on all these unfamiliar books.

“You don’t know that you won’t,” Louis insists. “Hell, you didn’t even know me until yesterday.”

Harry doesn’t know how to reply except to let his hand reach out, gently moulding it against Louis’ cheek. And Louis—Louis gasps, his lips parting and his skin heating under Harry’s touch, and…

And there’s the sound of the bell tinkling as the door opens, a blond boy bursting through. Louis pulls away (Harry instantly feels the absence as though it’s actually physical, tangible in some way) and he scampers behind the counter, skin still painted pink like it’s a reminder.

There’s a booming laugh from the new arrival.

“Caught you in the act, did I?” he chuckles. “Don’t worry about it. I was just looking to buy a book, and then I’ll be out of your way.” He punctuates his statement with a wink, smirking at both Louis and Harry in turn.

Harry’s stunned into silence, and Louis is mutely shaking his head, but neither of them verbally deny the accusation.

“Any recommendations?” the blond continues. “I haven’t really got anything in mind.” He seems totally oblivious to the tension that’s thick in the air, to the awkwardness that seems stifling to Harry.

“Try ‘Wuthering Heights’,” Louis suggests, gesturing towards one of the bookshelves. He still seems a bit dazed, his voice a little rough.

“Will do,” the boy replies. His accent’s got a little bit of Irish left in it, although it’s dulled by the London dialect somewhat, Harry notices. He’s slightly endearing, with the messiness of his hair and the way there’s a guitar case strapped to his back. His eyes are scanning over the shelf and Harry takes the opportunity of his distraction to pivot on the spot where he’s sitting, tucking his legs up so that he’s cross-legged and facing Louis again.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I just…sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Louis replies. “Yeah, just…it doesn’t mean, anything, right? You still want to be my friend? Because I-I don’t have very many.”

“Of course I want to be your friend,” Harry says indignantly. “I meant what I said—anyone would be mad not to want you as a friend. You’re…um, I think you’re amazing, Louis. And I know that I’ve only known you a couple of days, but that’s what I think, so.”

“Even though I’m all…messed up, and I’m not happy all the time?”

“No one’s happy all the time,” Harry replies, deliberately patronizing. Louis still has an edge of sadness in his cerulean eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches up into a smile, so Harry counts it as a success.

“Excuse me,” says the other occupant of the room. “If you’re quite finished, I’d actually like to buy this.”

“Sure,” Louis says, and Harry leaps off the counter. “Thanks for shopping at Marks & Co, Mr…?” Harry bites his lip to keep from giggling at Louis’ professional persona. He seems so different to what Harry’s witnessed of him beforehand; it’s intriguing.

“It’s Niall. My name’s Niall.”

“Well, thanks,” Louis repeats. “This’ll be 50p, please.” Niall fishes the coins out of his pocket and places them on the counter, one by one.

“Good luck, you two!” he singsongs cheerfully as he strolls out, new book in hand.

***

Lunch is at a sandwich shop on the corner, where you can order milkshakes, so while they wait for Zayn to arrive, they order three. Strawberry-flavoured for Harry, chocolate for Louis and a blueberry smoothie for Zayn.

The man himself turns up fashionably late, with artfully messy hair, a rather impressive array of tattoos and a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Harry can see the appeal, quite honestly. There’s a smudge of pink lipstick on his jaw, though, and Harry can’t help but reach out to squeeze Louis’ hand comfortingly under the table.

They’re squashed in a little booth, Harry and Louis next to each other on one side, facing Zayn. It’s more than a little awkward for a couple of seconds before Zayn’s face relaxes into an easy smile.

“Who’s this, then?” he asks, looking a lot less scary now that his lips are curved upwards and his eyes are softer.

“I’m Harry. Harry Styles.”

“My _friend_ ,” Louis adds hastily, separating their interlocked hands gingerly. “Or, potential friend. I need you to help me decide whether he’s right for the position or not.”

“Of friend,” Zayn says disbelievingly, rolling his eyes. “Lou, I don’t think that’s something you can force.” He’s looking pointedly at the older man, scrutinising him. Harry thinks he knows why.

“It just sort of happens,” he chips in quickly, flashing his dimples.

“You can’t use those to win my love,” Louis responds, poking a finger into one of the indents. “I need to analyse the data from a peer assessment before I make any judgements.”

“Fine,” Zayn sighs, leaning back in his seat. “Tell me about yourself, Harry.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I’m just Harry: I’m not very interesting. I’m seventeen years old, and I’m from Cheshire. Only moved out a couple of weeks ago. I used to work in a bakery, so I’ve been saving up to come here for three years now. My mum worries about me a lot, and she’s promised to visit with my sister every weekend. I only have one friend so far, who I met on the tube, and his name’s Liam. I want to be a poet; that’s why I moved here, to follow my dream. I love old books, especially how they smell. I think London’s a lot more depressing in real life than it is in the movies. I like books and films that have happy endings, and I hope that my life has a happy ending.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Zayn inquires, brown eyes warm and welcoming.

“No…not really my area,” Harry admits, chewing nervously on his lower lip. It feels like an interrogation, probably because it is.

“Are you gay?”

What a follow up question. Harry has to think for a few seconds. Is he? He’s never consciously thought of himself as anything, really: his love affair with books seems far more potent than any romantic or sexual entanglement that he could ever hope to have. He can’t deny that he’s more likely to check out a guy than a girl, that he’s always been more drawn to an attractive man than a woman…and that he’s pretty much the stereotype of a gay guy: he looks feminine and his friendship group mainly consisted of girls all through secondary school, and he likes singing and reading, and occasionally he likes wearing pink clothes and trying his hair into a ponytail, or two cute little pigtails. He knows that reading into stereotypes is bad, but still: he’s rather attached to a pink tutu he’s got at home, and he’s fairly sure that that’s not normal. He also knows that when he imagines his first kiss, he always thinks of a rasp of stubble across his jaw, strong hands threading through his curls. So, really, he considers himself…

“Gay, yeah. Or just forever alone.”

“What d’you mean?” Zayn continues his questioning, looking genuinely curious but also the tiniest bit judgemental.

“I’ve never been kissed, never been in a romantic relationship of any kind… I’ve just never, uh—” He glances sideways at Louis, feels the words die in his throat before he forces them out. “—felt that way about anyone, really.”

“Why’d you quit school?” Louis asks abruptly, and Harry senses the boy’s need for a subject change: he’s all too happy to play along.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you said that you’re seventeen, and you’re obviously not doing A Levels. So, why’d you quit?”

“I don’t really know what I would’ve done. I love English, obviously, but I’ve never been much good at writing essays. I liked History, too, but I got a C at GCSE so I couldn’t carry on. And I was quite good at Geography but I hated it, so I didn’t want to do that. I’m guessing you did your A Levels, then—what did _you_ take?”

“English Lit, Film Studies, Drama and Music,” Louis reels off. “I got three As, and a B in Music. I went on to do a couple of years of Uni, but—uh…”

“It didn’t work out,” Zayn interrupts shortly.

There’s something more to the story, Harry can hear it. He can hear in in the hesitation in Louis’ voice, the way it cracked on that last word. He can hear it in the harshness of Zayn’s tone, the protective, fierce edge. Harry’s glad about that, though; he can tell that Zayn really cares about Louis. There’s curiosity, of course—he wants to know all of Louis’ secrets, to find them out and record them and never forget them, but he also respects the man’s privacy, so he doesn’t ask, instead opting to drain the last of his milkshake and get out of the booth, muttering a quick explanation of ‘toilet’ before he heads over to the bathroom.

While he’s alone, he has a chance to think.

He knows he finds Louis attractive. Has done ever since he walked into the shop yesterday, saw him cross-legged on the counter with glasses framing his eyes. Perfect. He knew from the moment he entered the man’s sanctuary, but he’d still thought that finding someone attractive had little affect on him. How wrong he’d been—in Louis’ case, anyway. Even though he’d never thought of Louis in an explicitly sexual way, he’d thought of the man as something beautiful, flawless in his flaws—an exquisite illustration bound by the pages of a book. Now he thinks of Louis in a different—and not entirely unpleasant—way, as sensual: something real and lithe and physical, with rippling muscles and diverse facial expressions and subtle movements that show what he’s feeling.

In short, Harry sees him as human.

And he’s now accepted that he is most definitely gay. Whatever he was before he met Louis, it’s irrelevant. Now, all he can see is blue eyes and wispy hair, golden skin and the faintest trace of stubble.

But what to do about it, there’s the question. He wants Louis as a friend as much as he desires him as a lover. His baser instincts have been suppressed for years, and he will continue to subdue them with ease, he’s sure. He’s felt it already, of course: the rush when he’d seen Louis’ bare skin, the weakness in his knees and the heat through his body when the man’s hands had been in his hair, but only now does he see the full picture: that he is a victim of lust in the same way that everyone else is.

Well, that’s new.

Still, he values friendship more than he does sex, and he can sense Louis’ reluctance to let anyone get close to him in a romantic way (after whatever it was that Zayn did to him) and Harry just wants to help, just wants to make Louis smile until he forgets that he’s ever been hurt.

Splashing water on his face, he finally shoves his thoughts into a mental box marked ‘DEAL WITH LATER’ and walks back out into the restaurant. He spots Zayn and Louis immediately, but they don’t notice him; they’re engrossed in some sort of argument, heads down and brows furrowed. Harry looks on—they haven’t noticed him—and manages to pick out a few words of their heated discussion.

“…he’s naïve, Louis; he’ll think you’re leading him on…”

“What, like you did to me?”

“You’ll get bored…”

“Mind your own business!” Louis hisses, just as Harry’s had enough, coming back to sit down again, keeping as much distance from Louis as he can in the narrow booth. Zayn instantly moulds his face into a charismatic smile.

“What do you guys want to eat?” he asks charmingly. His voice is rough with cigarette smoke and he looks morose, like he hates seeing Louis sad as much as Harry does.

Maybe that is the case. Harry doesn’t know.

“I’ll have the usual, Zayn,” Louis replies, voice still arctic. He’s tense, back straight as a board against comfortable seating, and Harry wants to reach out but can’t. “If you can remember what it is,” Louis continues.

“Of course I can,” Zayn snaps, calm exterior crumbling slightly. “What about you, Harry?”

“Oh, I don’t know…just a bagel or something, please?”

As soon as Zayn’s gone, standing in a queue that’s out of earshot, behind a lady with dark hair and a boisterous child hanging off her arm.

“Okay, so I guess I haven’t been honest with you, and honesty is vital to a friendship, right?” Louis says quickly, so quickly that Harry struggles to keep up, and he barely has time to nod his head before Louis continues. “I told you I went up north to do Uni and that I lived with my dad and sisters. Well, that’s what I tell everyone. What actually happened is I lived right above the shop almost all my life, with my mum, and then I went to a University in London—King’s College—and I moved out to do the whole experience properly, right? And I met Zayn because he was right next door in our dorms and we just, we hit it off. Didn’t even think about friends before we jumped right into this crazy sort of co-dependency for about a year, until my mum died, just like—out of the blue. She left me the bookshop, and the flat above, only I hated it, because I was alone, and it was my _mum’s_. It still—still smelt like her; it was still _hers._ So I moved back home one night, just packed my bags and left. Back to Doncaster, like I was escaping. Only, I didn’t tell Zayn, didn’t leave a note or even text him, and so. I, uh, I dropped out of Uni and even when I decided that I wanted to go back to London, because the bookshop was my mum’s life and I couldn’t just leave it, I just kind of thought that Zayn would be waiting for me. We’d never even been exclusive, had never defined what we were, just…” Louis cuts himself off with a bitter laugh. “I didn’t expect him to be with this _girl_. I mean, she was so goddamn _beautiful_ —still is, it’s not fair, but I just couldn’t understand. For such a long time, I thought he’d abandoned me, when the truth was that it was the other way ‘round.”

Harry doesn’t know how to respond, so they sit in silence until he’s saved by Zayn reappearance at the table, armed with a cheese toastie for Louis, nothing for himself and a cream cheese bagel.

Louis stays silent for the rest of the meal.

***

They walk back to the bookshop together, tension thick in the air between them. It’s only a couple of minutes’ walk, but it seems to last hours, their footsteps loud against the pavement and their eyes carefully averted from each other.

“It’s not your fault,” Harry says, breaking the silence with immense difficulty. “Well, I guess it’s not Zayn’s, either, but—I’m sorry. I just wanted to be your friend, and now I’ve even managed to screw that up and make it all awkward again, but I just wanted to say that, so—”

“You’ve never been kissed?” Louis demands abruptly. It seems like he’s trying to change the subject, and Harry lets him.

“Um. No, no. I haven’t. I-I’ve always been really shy, b’lieve it or not.”

“No one wanted to?” There’s a hint of disbelief colouring Louis’ tone—not like he doesn’t believe Harry, but like he doesn’t believe the people that didn’t want to kiss him. It’s nice. “No one at all?”

“I—um, I don’t know. But I didn’t want to. Either. No one asked, though.” He feels overwhelmed, body flushing hot and cold all over. They’re in front of Marks & Co, now, neither of them making a move to go inside. They’re facing each other, eyes locked and Harry, at least, is unable to look away.

“Well, Harry Styles, that’s something that’s impossible to believe,” Louis says, and he sounds breathless.

“Should we…um, should we go inside?”

They’re so close, face-to-face, feeling each other’s warmth. It’d be so easy, Harry thinks; to lean forward, just slightly, press his lips to Louis’—connect them: hands on waist, mouth on mouth. He holds his breath.

“Yeah,” Louis replies suddenly, pulling back. “Yeah, we should.”

Harry lets the air escape in a rush through his nose, and he follows Louis obediently back into the shop despite his disappointment. He needs to stop this, this embarrassing desperation, obsession. But, he can’t. Now he’s realised the extent of his attraction, it just seems like it’s impossible to ignore it. It’s like Louis is a new sort of addiction, like Harry’s stuck in his orbit and can’t seem to move away—not for long, anyway—to create space in between them. He doesn’t want to.

Louis doesn’t look at him; he sits on the counter and opens the book he’d picked out for Harry just that morning, eyes running down the page far too quickly.

“I think I’ll buy that,” Harry says, injecting false brightness into his tone. It hurts. The words scrape against his throat and feel foreign. Where before he could only speak to Louis with warmth, stumbling over his own insecurities and feeling adoration seep through his words, now he’s pretending. Now his words are nothing; empty vessels of sound that dissipate into meaninglessness as soon as they’re spoken. “How much is it?”

“£3. It’s a hardback, so…” Louis’ voice is strained as he moves to stand behind the antique computer, presses buttons and waits for Harry’s money.

“Louis,” Harry says desperately, his true response breaking free of the façade. “Louis, please stop. I don’t care what Zayn said. I trust you.” He doesn’t know what else he can say, but this is the truth, and he only hopes that Louis recognises that.

“That’s just it, though,” Louis replies in a monotone. “You’re naïve. You’ve only known me for a couple of days, and you don’t—you can’t say things like that! How can you trust me, when you barely know me? I don’t what you’ve got into your head, but we’re not—we’re not _friends,_ Harry.”

Harry has to leave, then, because there are tears forming before he can stop them—stinging his eyes, and he _won’t_ cry in front of Louis. He _won’t_.

Louis doesn’t follow.

As he stumbles back to his flat, Harry’s breath keeps hitching in humiliating little sobs that sound like they’re clawing themselves from his mouth, hiccupping and ugly. He knows his face has turned blotchy and red, like it always does when he cries. He knows that passers-by are staring at him, pitying and unsure. Not knowing whether to help or not. No one says a word. Harry walks home alone. He cries alone.

When he gets inside of his cupboard-sized flat, he falls face down on the sofa bed that he hadn’t bothered to pack away that morning. He never bothers putting it away, really. It’s only been a few weeks, and he’s already getting into terrible habits. Typical.

He nudges the remote control with his nose, pressing the on button and not even bothering to get up, simply turning his head to watch the brothers on screen kill a bunch of demons. The TV reminds Harry of home; it’s one of the things he brought with him and he remembers the Christmas when he unwrapped it, close enough to his mum that he only had to kneel up to feel her arms tight around him. Now, she’s hours away. He misses her hugs.

The show is full of mindless violence, and it distracts Harry from the painful contractions of his heart. He welcomes it because of that. He likes avoiding his problems. His pulse still feels too loud in his ears, and his nose is still running, snot sticking to the sheets.

He’s only known Louis for a couple of days, and yet this is what the man’s rejection has done to him. Pathetic.

Harry falls asleep like that, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs that he can’t quite suppress. He falls asleep in a room where the summer heat envelops him with more effectiveness than his blanket could ever manage. He falls asleep with thoughts of Louis in his head, and he convinces himself that it will all get better in the morning.

It doesn’t.

When the sun rises, Harry wakes up, but he lies in bed until noon, just because he can. He has no other obligations. Louis isn’t waiting for him, not anymore. After that, he gets up and wanders around his plat, just thinking. Thinking about his life before Louis.

Or, alternatively, his life two days ago.

 _God._ It feels like he’s been irreversibly altered, but that’s the truth of it. He’s not in love with Louis, he can’t be, because it’s been two days and this isn’t one of the novels Harry reads. There’s no Romeo and Juliet love at first sight. There can’t

be, because this is 21st century London and that’s not how it works here. Here, you meet people, and you date them, and you have sex, and maybe after that you get emotionally attached.

He washes his sheets, he has a shower, he eats lunch and it tastes like cardboard. He watches TV. He thinks about why he came to London. To be a poet. He hasn’t written a word since he got here. He thinks he could write sonnets about the way Louis’ hair falls into his eyes. He doesn’t really want to try. He needs a job, though. A source of income. He’s got money in his bank; his mum put it there. He saved up for some of it. A job at a bakery. So, get a job. Task number 1.

Task number 2 is to stop avoiding Liam. They’d met on the tube. Liam had introduced himself, friendly in a city full of strangers. They’d made plans. Harry had cancelled their plans. He’d stayed at home with his books. He isn’t sure he wants a friend. Books are more reliable, aren’t they.

He was going to read a lot, but there’s a bar between him and the bookshop he really wants to visit. Task 3 is a no-go. He packed books, though, well worn: ones that he’s read a million times before. He picks one at random now; he picks ‘Bad Alice’, and it reminds him of the book Louis was reading. ‘Automated Alice.’ The universe is cruel enough for coincidences like that, he supposes, and he puts it back.

Task number 4: write. He’s got no inspiration, though, even though he knows he should be writing about his pain. He just feels like it’s not significant enough. Not poignant enough. He doesn’t want to wallow; he wants to be happy again. He’s usually happy all the time. He’s usually the light in peoples’ lives, beaming even when they’re downcast.

Instead of doing anything productive, then, he listens to sad music, with lyrics about death and unrequited love and all manner of depressing things. He watches crappy shows on TV—something on the Sy-Fy channel with Canadian accents and supernatural creatures; an episode of Star Trek; several episodes of The Big Bang Theory—and he eats noodles from a packet. They taste less like cardboard than lunch did, and he considers that a substantial improvement.

Still. There’s no progress on any of the actual _tasks_ , and he didn’t move to London to sit around and mope. It’s been two weeks and he hasn’t even begun to look for a job; he’s relying on funds from his mum and he thinks that’s kind of a shitty thing to do. It makes him feel like a parasite, and that’s not what he wants to be. He’d promised to be self-sufficient by the end of the month.

That’s how he finds himself—the next day—back at the sandwich/milkshake bar ( _Gulliver’s_ —Harry knows it’s good if it’s named after a book) with a vague recollection of a job advertisement in his mind and a CV in his hand. He’s adamant that it’s nothing to do with Louis. He’s not hoping to see the man again. Not at all.

He gets an interview, and he’s not distracted by thoughts of Louis apologising and admitting he has feelings for Harry while he answers the manager’s mundane questions.

A few days later, he starts work. His palms sweat when he walks up the now familiar street. He convinces himself it’s because he’s nervous about making sandwiches. He convinces himself that he chose the lunchtime shift for no reason whatsoever. And therefore, it’s undeniably a complete coincidence when, on his third day of work, Louis walks through the door, not even glancing at Harry behind the counter before he joins the back of the queue. Harry feels his breath stop for a moment; the customer he’s meant to be serving has to repeat his order several times before Harry snaps out of his daze.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, hurrying to collect the Panini from behind the glass counter.

When he looks up again, Louis is staring at him, lips slightly parted in shock. He seems torn between staying and bolting out of the door, and Harry hastily looks away; he doesn’t think he can bear to watch Louis leave. He barely moves his eyes from the their fixation on the counter as he serves the next few customers, refusing to so much as raise his head until he hears Louis’ soft, musical voice.

“You passed the test.”

“What?” Harry’s staring, now, not able to help himself. He still can’t look Louis in the eye, though, instead choosing to focus on the man’s tanned bicep. It’s a nice bicep, he notices. He hadn’t noticed that before.

“I didn’t realise before, but you were being my friend from the very start. You passed the test,” Louis repeats. Harry slowly raises his eyes, evaluating Louis’ expression. It’s open—more open than Harry’s seen it—and it’s sad, too. “I know you probably won’t forgive me…but I—” Louis stops abruptly, releasing a huff of frustration. “I don’t know how to say this. I can’t promise I won’t be…y’know, _me_ ; I’m a complete twat half the time, but I want to be your friend, Harry. I don’t deserve you, but. I really do want to be yours.”

“I…uh, yeah. Me too,” Harry replies awkwardly. “I want…that. Yeah. I don’t think you’re a twat, either. Can I get you anything?”

“Chocolate milkshake?”

“Have you eaten today?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll make you a sub,” Harry says, turning to the milkshake. While his back’s turned, he allows himself to beam like an idiot at the machine he’s operating. He feels like his chest is expanding, like there’s warmth filling him up that’s nothing to do with the sweltering summer.

“Trying to look after me?” Louis challenges, but when Harry turns back around to defend himself, he sees Louis’ fond smile, the crinkles by his eyes, and he grins back instead.

“Maybe,” he admits cheekily, handing Louis his milkshake and bending to make the sandwich. Louis laughs, and Harry’s heart flutters. His legs feel like jelly and his hands shake, and he thinks that he might start buying into this love at first sight thing after all.

***

Louis stays in the café until Harry’s shift is over—half an hour later—sipping at his drink and catching Harry’s eye at regular intervals. Harry’s beam never falters, and some customers start eyeing him warily, as though they’re distrustful of any minimum-wage worker who seems _happy,_ of all things.

It’s exactly 1.30 when Harry finally gets to hand his ridiculous-looking apron over to his colleague, Nick, and he bounds out from behind the counter, smile wide and whole body buzzing with the excitement of being Louis’ friend again.

They’re silent as they walk down the street to Louis’ shop together, both biting their lips against smiles—and they keep looking at each other, stealing not so sneaky glances that end in their eyes darting away, blushing at getting caught.

“Have you ever read ‘Gulliver’?” Louis asks abruptly, as they’re approaching the now-familiar destination of Harry’s favourite bookshop.

“D’you mean ‘Gulliver’s Travels’?”

“Nah, I’m talking about the graphic novel,” Louis responds. “And don’t you dare get all prissy on me again. Graphic novels are some of the most dynamic books you’ll ever read, so get your head out of your arse.”

“Alright,” Harry says easily. “D’you have it in your shop?”

“I do, s’matter of fact. Are you actually looking to broaden your reading range? I’m shocked, Hazza. First crime and now graphic…soon you’ll be going off Shakespeare!”

“Seriously, what do you _have_ against Shakespeare?” Harry demands.

Louis turns to wink at him; Harry’s legs go weak. And he wonders, in that moment—panic, really—if this, this _friendship_ , in all its almost-perfection, will collapse when Louis finally realises how hopelessly enamoured Harry is by him, and he knows his thoughts are written all over his face. He’s honestly content with friendship (it’s all he’s ever known, really) but he’s terrified that Louis won’t think he is, will think that Harry expects more.

They get back to the shop, then, with all its promises and memories and accusations, and they carefully don’t look at each other as they walk inside. There’s a hole in the plaster of the wall near the counter in the shape of a fist that wasn’t there before. Neither of them mention it.

“I, um…I wanted to say that I’m sorry,” Louis says, and his fingers are laced together, twisting and turning. “You deserve an apology; I treated you like shit. I mean. I didn’t mean to, but. I guess you can see, now, why I’ve got no friends.”

“You’ve got Zayn.”

“Zayn’s got Perrie,” Louis replies, and he looks tired. “I know that’s how it works—your friends get married some time or another, but it’s not—I’m not _in love_ with him, ‘s not what I mean. But back when we were having sex, I _had_ him. He was just…there. I could call him at 3 in the morning for, like, phone sex…or just to chat, y’know. I was the most important thing in his life. I’d’ve been fine with just friends, but I wanted some way to, like, tether him to me. Make sure he never liked anyone better.”

Harry bites his lip, and he stares at Louis quietly for a minute, like he can’t bring himself to speak. Really, he’s just trying to work out what to say. But what can he say that might make it better, really?

In the end, he walks forward and tangles their fingers together; he squeezes Lou

is’ hand in his own and he doesn’t say a word.

Louis looks lost, for a second—confused—but then he’s pulling Harry closer and burying his face in Harry’s chest. They’ve been here before, but it’s different now. Harry feels his height when he holds Louis like this, feels big enough to be able to protect the wonderful boy in his arms.

It doesn’t last; of course it doesn’t. The door opens and there’s a booming laugh and it’s the same boy from the other day—of course it is: Niall.

They break apart and they look at him, and there’s a girl on his arm who looks a bit shy but also friendly; she’s smiling bashfully and her hand is in Niall’s. It takes Niall a good few seconds to stop laughing (it’s not a mean laugh, not teasing: just happy and carefree).

“Ah, mate, a’m glad you’re back,” he grins, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “He was right miserable without you. I’m fairly sure I heard Linkin Park through his headphones. And then, yesterday, _Adele_.” Harry glances at Louis, who’s looking at his feet, shuffling them through the dust on the floor. “ _Never mind I’ll find someone like youuuuuuu!_ ” Niall sings loudly, strolling over to the nearest bookshelf.

His girlfriend looks embarrassed, but she walks to Harry, holding her hand out for him to shake.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says, doing the polite thing. She’s very different from Niall, Harry thinks. Maybe they’re good for each other. He doesn’t know.

“Yeah, it is,” he responds, and they’re both a little awkward about it: bashful and quiet. “I’m Harry,” he says as an afterthought, and she smiles at him. It’s a pretty smile; her eyes light up and her lips part and it’s _genuine,_ is the main thing.

“I’m Beth,” she tells him, and the name suits her. She’s a bit like a character from a book—a princess, maybe—delicate and fragile and so very, very pretty.

It takes Louis a few more moments to spring into action, introducing himself (all confidence and charming, like Harry remembers) and making her laugh, putting her at ease. It’s effortless for him, and Harry’s sort of in awe of that, all wide-eyed and maybe a little bit in love with this amazing man.

After that, Louis bustles around, recommends a book for Niall (‘Frost On My Moustache’) and one for Beth (‘Kit’s Wilderness’), totally in his element, and Harry knows that the books will be perfect for them, because Louis’ dedicated to this; he loves it. He slips upstairs while Louis is distracted by Niall, and he busies himself with the kettle. When he comes back down it’s with a plate of biscuits and two hot chocolates (he would’ve made some for Niall and Beth; but his hands aren’t actually _that_ big, and he can’t be bothered to make two trips) brimming with marshmallows and smelling far more divine than their cheap supermarket own-brand should allow.

Niall’s still there, but Beth’s gone (late for art class, Niall tells them) and they sit cross-legged on the dusty floor and stuff their faces with jammie dodgers and custard creams and copious amounts of marshmallows.

There are only a few awkward questions (“We’re not together!” Harry insists, flushing bright red) and by the end of their time together they’re all exchanging phone numbers, texting each other silly emoticons to test it out (Harry favours prawns, Louis finds dinosaurs and Niall likes sunshines—it’s all probably very symbolic, really, if they could be bothered to look into it).

When Niall’s gone, Harry stays, still a little bit pink in the face and licking crumbs off his fingers.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Louis says, and Harry’s eyebrows furrow, confused. His index finger is still between his lips. “People might get the wrong idea.”

“’s only you,” Harry murmurs, but he folds both of his hands safely in his lap, cheeks colouring again. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to have a conversation with Louis without this undertone, without that little bit of longing that’s becoming so familiar to him.

“You’re a bit of a menace, you know,” Louis adds conversationally. “A tease.”

“I don’t mean to be,” Harry replies. His voice is deeper than usual.

“No one ever does,” Louis says, grabbing the plate and heading for the stairs. Harry follows, mugs in hand, more confused than ever.

***

They form a routine. Louis goes to Gulliver’s for lunch and eats there, picking Harry up and taking him back to the bookshop with him. Harry asks if he stocks a certain book and Louis, invariably, says no. Then Louis recommends a book for Harry to read, and Harry reads it because Louis hasn’t got it wrong yet (not with ‘The Twelfth Day of July’, not with ‘Dusk’, not with ‘The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency’). They sit in silence, side by side; they read their respective books. After about a week, Harry starts to bring some of his own collection for Louis to read, like an exchange, and Louis enjoys them (enjoys ‘1066 and All That’, enjoys ‘A Tale of Two Cities’, enjoys ‘Naked Without a Hat’). Yes, they read in silence—for a couple of hours until one of them gets bored—not as though the books are boring, but there are pins and needles in their feet and an incessant ache in their legs; they haven’t moved since they sat down. Other times, they’re interrupted by a customer: be it Niall or Jade or Greg, or an entirely new face. They make polite conversation, and the customer always assumes they’re a couple.

Harry learns quickly that Louis’ mood changes a lot. Mostly he’s happy, wild, and a little bit crazy—telling jokes that are almost as bad as Harry’s, doing stupid things just for a laugh. But other times he’s sad, quiet and biting his fingernails into his forearms. Times like those, Harry soon realises that it’s best to stay close to Louis, that physical comfort works better than verbal. It’s not uncommon, when Louis’ having a bad day, for the older man to curl up in Harry’s lap, tucking his head under Harry’s chin. Harry doesn’t question it—couldn’t even if he tried—and they don’t mention it after the moment’s passed.

The worst days are the ones when Louis is _angry_ , because Harry doesn’t know what to do then. Louis lashes out at the slightest provocation: barbed words and pointed phrases. It’s on one such day, two months on, that Harry gets angry in reply.

Summer’s fading, and there’s no real reason for Louis’ irritation, as usual. He’s just sort of tempestuous, and Harry’s scared to get too close. On a day like this, it’s unwise to try.

They’re in the shop; it’s a Thursday. Thursdays tend to be a bad day for Louis, as a rule. Harry’s got no idea why, that’s just the way it seems to go. He’s pretended to be okay with it so far. But today, Louis’ teasing Harry (which is the wrong way to phrase what he’s doing, but ‘verbally abusing’ sounds too harsh) and Harry’s just dealing with it, like he always does, when…

“You think you’re in love with me, don’t you.” It’s not even as if the words are said with venom; they’re flat, lifeless. Final. It’s worse.

And Harry snaps.

“I can’t think why I would be!” His eyes prickle, damn them. “Not when you’re such a damn _challenge_ half the time. It’d be fine if there was something bothering you, yeah, but you’ve got to stop taking these mood swings out on me!”

“You’re right,” Louis says, pathetic. “I’m not worth loving.”

“Oh, for God’s… _stop_.” Harry’s crying, now, can’t help himself. His mum always used to describe him as ‘sensitive’. When he was younger, he used to bristle at the use of the word. _Sensitive._ Not ready to go out into the world by himself. Not ready to face boys like Louis, who make him love them and stomp on his heart like it’s nothing. “I’m not okay with being emotionally manipulated or—whatever this is. You’re an utter arsehole sometimes, Louis. And it used to be okay because it wasn’t all the time, but it’s becoming worse and worse, and—fuck, Louis, I just want to help. I just don’t know how I can. Please tell me how I can help. I hate this, this right now. You just make me feel shit and I convince myself it’s worth it because the next day you’ll make me feel like I’m on top of the world, and I just—I want it to be like that all the time, Lou. Please.”

“When I wake up each morning, I’m happy,” Louis says, and there’s wetness glistening on his cheeks, too. Remorse, Harry tries to convince himself. “I wake up happy every single damn day, and then life just comes and fucks it all up. Every night, I go to bed feeling like utter shit. Because, Mondays I have dinner with Zayn, and by the time I leave I’m reminded of everything I don’t have, and I down a bottle of wine and then I pass out on my sofa. Every week. I like routines, don’t you? They’re safe.” His laugh is a little bit hysterical. “On Tuesdays and Fridays I call Lottie first thing in the morning, because if I don’t then I never will, and she’ll lose her big brother, and I don’t want that. She tells me about her new boyfriend, and she tells me about how Dad’s doing—not well—and then she asks me how I’m holding up, and I lie, and lie, and lie. I spend the rest of the day trying to distract myself from the fact that every time I call, I’ve drifted further away from all of them. On Wednesdays I call my dad, after you’re gone. He always cries; I remind him of Mum. Like it’s my fault.”

Harry, who’s slowly realising how little he really knows about Louis, murmurs, “What about today?”

“Zayn’s got this new thing where once a week I go out to breakfast with him and Perrie. I think he wants me to get to know her—best man at the wedding and all that. I get pissed off because they’re so gorgeous together, all smiles and politeness and their feet crossed together under the table. And then there’s you, and I…just, I can’t.”

“Why do I make you angry?” Harry asks quietly.

“Because you’re goddamn perfect, aren’t you. You’re gonna realise, one day, that you could have anyone in the world, and you’re gonna leave me. Look, Harry, most of the time you’re the only thing that makes me happy besides my books. Most days, I try to cling to you for as long as I can, to try to keep the feeling of being close to you. But every night, I go to sleep feeling just as terrible. It just depends on when the feeling changes, how you see me. I’m broken, Harry. I’m not saying it because I want your sympathy; I just want you to understand. I’ve got a dead mum and a fucked up family; I’ve got a best friend who I still want to be with even though he’s marrying someone else; my only other friends are books and I’m falling in love with you so fast it’s scaring me.”

And Harry kisses him.

It’s so far from perfect that it’s almost laughable, because Louis doesn’t have the chance to prepare for it and Harry’s not even sure when he decided to _do_ this, and for about ten seconds Harry seriously considers lighting himself on fire to avoid the awkwardness of pulling away.

Then Louis kisses back.

His fingers tangle in Harry’s hair and Harry’s lips part, overwhelmed totally by the conflicting emotions that are waging a rather vicious war in his head. Still, he ignores the protests of his logic and wraps his arms around Louis’ waist, tries to extend the moment beyond its end, when they break apart and stare at each other, with breathing deep and heavy, not separating by very much—still held in each other’s arms.

“We can’t…I can’t—” Louis stammers quietly, eyes darting like a trapped animal’s. Harry rubs fingers across his spine, trying to soothe.

“Shh,” he whispers; words too loud will slice apart the atmosphere, will send whatever they’ve created (repaired) shattering into a thousand tiny fragments. “Shh, it’s okay. We won’t if you don’t want, ‘s fine—”

But Louis’ kissing him again, needy and desperate, fisting his fingers in Harry’s shirt and Harry feels so helpless: like this is the wrong time and they’re ruining this, but he can’t stop it. Can’t stop himself responding, letting Louis push him back against the counter—kissing and kissing and pressing close, so close.

Louis’ the one who pulls back first, but it’s only so his sharp little teeth can nibble at Harry’s lower lip, at the line of his jaw. Some distant part of Harry’s mind is grateful that it’s past closing time and Niall isn’t likely to walk in any time soon (honestly, how would they convince him they’re not a couple after this?) but the forefront is consumed by Louis, Louis Louis.

There are tear tracks dried on his face, and the flow of adrenaline from the fight is still coursing through him, but he’s never felt happier.

“What do you want, Harry?” Louis asks, biting Harry’s ear so it’s almost painful, and Harry might see stars. He can only choke out a moan in response, because Louis’ thigh is between his legs and it’s taking all his self control not to just grind down on it, chasing after release. “You want me to jerk you off?” Louis continues softly, lips sending electric sparks under Harry’s skin. “Right here, where anyone can see you? Let everyone see how desperate for it you are?”

Harry whines.

There’s really not very much finesse when Louis sticks his hand down Harry’s pants, but there doesn’t need to be. Harry’s so gone for it already, face pressed to Louis neck. He keeps biting down on the junction between Louis’ neck and shoulder, sucking a deep purple bruise into the skin as Louis wraps his hand around Harry’s cock, jerking it quick and rough. And Harry can’t do anything but try to still the frantic, accidental movements of his hips, little moans and whimpers lost in Louis’ skin.

When he comes he doesn’t expect it, and he knows that his cry is far too loud, echoes through the bookshop and resounds in his own ears. He thinks he might say Louis’ name, thinks he might say ‘I love you’, but before he has a chance to come down from his high, Louis’ pulling him up the stairs, up to his little flat.

Harry’s dazed, but not dazed enough that he’s not vaguely aware of the implications of this, even as Louis leads him to the sofa. And by the time Louis’ kissing him again, he’s relaxing into it, stumbling backwards until they’re both on the couch, Harry moving down Louis’ neck and kneeling in front of him, looking up through lidded eyes.

He knows it’s moving too fast—he’s never done any of this before—but he _wants_ it, so much. Wants the way Louis’ eyes are blown and his lips are bitten and red, and wants to please him.

He wants the way Louis holds him tight, how he kisses like he never wants to stop, and he wants the way Louis’ eyes widen when Harry drops to his knees for him; how he asks “are you sure, love?” and all the traces of the argument are gone; it’s all tenderness, with Louis threading his hands though Harry’s hair, encouraging him with small noises and coming with his eyes closed and bliss written all over his face: beautiful.

In that moment, Harry feels closer to Louis than he’s ever felt to anyone, because there’s a vulnerability that comes with this, with Louis letting Harry see him like this. Exposed, letting go. Louis’ always so guarded, even when he’s controlled by his emotions, and Harry feels like he’s been given the power to tear those walls down, to bring out a side of Louis that contentedly wraps himself around Harry, petting his hip and pulling him in for a cuddle. Harry feels like it’s too much all at once, like his heart is going to burst out of his chest with how much he loves this boy.

But.

“D’you regret it?” Harry asks, as soon as he knows how to speak again.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Fuck’s sake, Harry, are you tryin’ to get me to leave?” His voice is fond, as soft as Harry’s ever heard it, a bit of laughter lighting up the edges.

“Sorry, I just—”

“I know,” Louis interrupts in a small voice, rearranging himself so he’s taken the position of little spoon in Harry’s arms. He’s so tiny and warm, like a miniature sun in Harry’s arms. “But I just told you I love you, and…God, I think I really do. Shit.”

“Alright,” Harry whispers. “I love you too, so we’re even.”

“How long?” Louis asks; because Harry’s statement is hardly something he didn’t already know. Harry’s almost amused, thinking back, by how obvious he was being.

“I don’t believe in love at first sight,” Harry murmurs, fingers stitching themselves in Louis’ hair. “But I don’t know…it’s like I’ve felt this way all along.”

“Why?”

“Because—God, Louis, d’you even remember the day we met. To me, it feels like something else. Something out of a dream. It was the middle of summer and you just looked so beautiful, even though I didn’t quite realise _how_ much just then. I remember thinking you were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen—you looked like you had a story, like you’d just stepped out of one of those books; like you were a collection of ink and soul and paper. You were just sitting on the desk, reading, but I knew you were special. You were reading the way I read; you were blocking out the world and giving yourself over entirely, and I-I loved that. Then you were looking at me, and I turned around and you smiled, and it was like the whole world just…stopped. God, that’s so cheesy, innit? But it did and I didn’t even realise it at first because it was too much to think about, y’know. And I…I just wanted a book but you were there and you changed my life. I remember that first smile best of all, even though I’ve seen a thousand since. I was just so gone for you, and I barely even noticed it.”

Louis shifts around until he can crane his neck and kiss Harry: sweet and quick, pressing one to his lips and another to his nose, making Harry giggle and blush. Then Louis yawns, curling up like a cat and smiling dazedly as his breathing levels out and he falls asleep.

***

Louis is not perfect. Harry knows that, but it doesn’t stop him from thinking it every morning, when he wakes up. Inevitably, his first thought of the day has become something about how perfect Louis is. This has been going on for at least a month now. Harry had taken to wondering if maybe he could do with a Louis detox.

But now, he wakes up and his routine doesn’t change as he wakes up and blinks in the gradually lightening morning sun, shining through the window of Louis’ flat. Louis’ body is warm on top of his, and if anything, the thought of Louis flashes louder in his mind, because the sun is turning Louis’ hair the sweetest shade of caramel and he can feel the soft whooshes of breath against his collarbones. And Harry feels like he’s floating.

When Harry turns his head, he sees something on the floor that he didn’t see the night before—a book. It’s worn and frayed at the edges, and Harry knows instinctively that this is one of Louis’ personal books; it’s not for sale. It’s his. Careful not to jostle the sleeping boy on top of him, Harry reaches out a hand to grab it. It’s one of the ‘Just William’ series, which Harry’s heard of but never read. He feels odd just looking at it—he’s always felt that looking at someone’s books can give you a glimpse of their soul, hopeless romantic that he is—but he turns to the first page anyway.

On the blankness before the story starts there is written:

_My darling Louis William Tomlinson,_

_I hope that whenever you read this_

_you think of me_

_and the wonderful times we had reading it together._

_Love, Mum x_

“I was named after him, y’know. Or, my middle name, at least. She really loved that book,” Louis murmurs, voice dancing over Harry’s chest. Harry hadn’t realised Louis was awake, but he doesn’t show his surprise, just presses a kiss to the top of Louis’ head, presses his fingers into the man’s waist.

“When did she give you this?” he asks softly.

“Few months before she died. Wanted me to have something to remember her by,” Louis replies, voice a little bit rough. Harry hugs him closer. “Harry…I can’t—I can’t stop being the way I am, yeah? I’m always gonna be bitchy sometimes—alright, a lot of the time, and you’re gonna get angry, like you did yesterday. Why did you stay?”

“Because, Lou, when’re you going to start seeing that you’re worth it? Yes, it’s hard when you get angry, because any time you’re not smiling, it feels like the world gets a little bit darker, but Louis—I always want to be here. _You’re worth it._ ”

“You sound like a fucking L’Oreal advert,” Louis laughs, but his voice is thick.

“Love you too,” Harry says. Louis laughs again, rolls out of their makeshift bed.

“D’you want some tea?” he asks.

“Only if I can go through your bookshelf while you’re at it,” Harry says, noting the small piece of furniture in the corner of the room. He wants to unlock all of Louis’ secrets and he would also rather like some tea, so it’s nice when Louis just rolls his eyes fondly and says, “Knock yourself out,” before padding to the kitchen.

Five minutes later, Harry’s in the kitchen, waving a book with his smile almost wider than his face.

“I found it,” he says breathlessly, as Louis hands him a cup of tea, smiling amusedly.

“What’s that?”

“I found a book that we’ve both read,” Harry says, and he has no idea why it makes me so happy, the idea that they’d both been entranced by the same words before they met (Harry can tell Louis’ read it—and loved it—from the highlighted quotes and the little annotations in his unmistakable handwriting).

“Oh?”

“’A Question of Courage.’”

“Fitting, hm?”

“Not particularly,” Harry smiles. “It’s about a suffragette, yeah? But…we found one, Lou.” And it’s like a metaphor, Harry thinks, like it’s all coming together and like they’ve finally found their common ground.

Because the thing about Harry and Louis, is that they’re so different, so different that sometimes Harry feels like he lives in a different one: a world coloured black and white and simple, and Louis lives in swirling colours and too much doubt, too much uncertainty. But sometimes, sometimes there’s a moment like this, standing in a kitchen that feels too much like home, with a book that they’ve both delighted in, with a book that connected them before they ever met, and he feels like maybe, finally, they’re on the same page.

**Author's Note:**

> this has been my baby for so long and i can't believe it's finished oh my goodness  
> please leave feedback <3  
> my tumblr is oopshidaisy so come and talk to me x


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